


Birthday

by Marquise



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're the only ones in the office. Set shortly after the founding of SCDP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

The office is nearly dark, the winter night already descending on New York at 5pm. Pete had lingered too long over his scotch, watching as the others walked past without acknowledging him, until everything around him had turned silent. The janitor hadn’t made his rounds yet, and he settled into his couch, forgotten and strangely at peace. 

He would tell Trudy he missed the train. He would finish his scotch and enjoy the solitude for just a little longer, the rumble of the city in the background the only sound. He missed that sound.

As he watches the moon make its trek across the sky, he notices a sliver of artificial light falling on the floor. He sets down his glass and rises, more than a little unsteady on his feet, and follows the trail out the door.

It leads him to creative. He thinks he should have expected that.

Peggy is leaned over her desk, seemingly engrossed in her work, smoke rising from her hand. He knows enough to know that it’s not a cigarette.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice sounding too loud in the empty room. His heart is beating in his chest, the same way it always did whenever he found himself alone with her. He wonders if he will ever escape it.

She looks up at him, eyes glassy, and smiles slightly—calmer than he ever would have expected her to be. She takes a hit off the joint and stubs it out in the ashtray, gestures at the papers in front of her. “I’m working,” she says, slightly annoyed. “Why are you still here?”

He wants to tell her what he planned to tell Trudy, though he knows she would never believe it. Instead Pete takes the seat across from her, meeting her eyes. He can’t remember the last time he was alone with her without fleeing within moments.

She seems to be thinking the same thing, as she regards him coldly. “You’re going to tell, aren’t you?”

He shakes his head, though truthfully he doesn’t know. There is something nice about being with her for this long, he thinks, as the anxiety wanes. “Why are you still here?”

“I told you,” she says, but she breaks eye contact. “Working.”

“You don’t like to be away from here, do you?” He says this as much to himself as he does her.

She regards the joint in the ashtray, almost as if she regrets extinguishing it for him. “Do you?”

Pete doesn’t answer. He sees a bottle of scotch on the sidebar and goes for it, silently pouring himself a glass before settling back down. Peggy looks at him for a long time and he can tell she wants to say something, but she remains silent. She picks up her pencil again and resumes her work as he sips at his drink.

Everything around them is closed and still. The night sounds of New York rumble low in the background, a pleasant hum. Pete eases back in his chair a bit, the alcohol doing its job, and watches her.

There a million questions he wants to ask her, acquisitions that he’s run through his mind countless times in the past few years. She saves him from this though, suddenly breaking the silence with an uncharacteristically quivering voice.

“It’s his birthday,” she says, eyes darting for just a second to meet his. The room goes quiet after that, even the sounds of the street seeming to die away.

He doesn’t know what to say. He never knew—he’d had his guesses, counted back months, but hearing the words come out of her mouth gives it a weight and a reality that cuts like a knife.

He finishes his glass; she plays with her pencil.

“Do you think about it?” he asks, one of the questions he could never phrase before.

She laughs, bitter almost. “I can’t stop.” The words almost fall out of her, and he can tell by the way her eyes widen that she was not expecting her own response.

Pete releases the tumbler, not realizing until his fingers leave the glass how hard he was clenching it. “Well then,” he says. “I guess this is appropriate. Us.”

Peggy meets his eyes again. Blue, like his. He wonders, not for the first time, if their son’s eyes were the same. She nods, eyes glinting.

She buries herself back into her work after that and he watches her, sipping at his drink, both of them miles away.


End file.
